The Perfectionist
by Lycanthrokeith

“Damn it! Still not right!”           

Jeff Dodson focused all his frustrations on the drawing tablet before him. Dashing hands ripped apart the paper, bending the spiral wire beyond service. The fragments of a bipedal wolf fluttered through the air, resting on the marred drawing table and hardwood floor of the young artist’s room. His breathing ragged, Jeff gathered the pieces of the graphite corpse and dropped them into a nearby trashcan. The circular file was filled to overflowing with wadded-up mistakes.

He leaned on the table in frustration, fighting a hacking cough. Jeff was usually the last person to catch a cold, if he caught it at all. He had called in sick from his stocking job after spending most of the morning purging the contents of his stomach. He hadn’t been aware of any bugs going around, but he’d sure as hell caught one full in the face. The morning had found him weak and shaking, his smooth baritone voice reduced to inaudible whimpers and his body running a 102-degree fever. When mid-afternoon hit, he had given up sleeping and resolved to do something other than dry roast.

He brushed away his bowl-cut red hair, scratching at the black roots. He was having trouble focusing on the blank paper in front of him. Water was clouding the vision into his green eyes. Wiping away the tears, Jeff forced himself from the wooden stool and over to his computer.

Logging on to his Internet service, he ducked into his personal web page. He had started “Moonlight Illustrations” almost a year ago as his way to show the world his artistic talent. Jeff was encouraged to make the page by the few close friends he had shown his work to. Most of the works were of wolves and werewolves; an occasional feline reared its head when the mood struck. Jeff had always had a fascination for the werewolves, ever since his first viewing of The Howling when he was 12. Their animal grace was captivating to watch; the fluidity and strength bowled him over. Like many of the Were and Transformation fans on the net, he fantasized about being one, even as his conscious mind told him it was impossible. His art was his dream, and his dream deserved his full talent.

The site was small by comparison to other sites of the same longevity and update schedule, consisting of a mere five works. The lack of sheer volume was due to Jeff’s picky nature about his work. He would often spend his planned monthly update editing previously posted art. His favorite work to date, a pencil shading of a tribal shaman changing into a werewolf as part of a ritual, saw near-constant revision. He wanted to draw professionally after he finished his Art degree at Towson University, so naturally he held himself to a high standard. It irritated Jeff that he could never seem to make it look right.

He peeked through his guest book, eying the usual one or two new notes of praise for his work (“WOW! How do you make your werewolves look so real?”), and the customary fifteen or so gripes (“Dude, when are you gonna update already?”). He sighed at the last, repetitive comment. His art must be perfect, and perfection takes time. Why couldn’t they see that?

Luckily, he had time to get this one right. His roommate had gone home for Spring Break, leaving the two-bedroom apartment all to himself. He’d spend the day creating a brand-new work, and update tomorrow. Jeff lumbered to the kitchen and began boiling water for instant tea as he plotted out his latest masterpiece. His well of ideas had started to run dry over the last year. Werewolves were a difficult subject to keep fresh; it was becoming difficult making up characters to change. He pondered the subject as he absently looked up, catching his reflection in the hall mirror.

Inspiration struck as he poured steaming water and an extra helping of sugar into the TU mug. He’d draw himself! Himself as a werewolf! He smiled weakly at the idea. “Perfect,” he croaked, sipping tea to ease his sore throat.

Hauling his aching body back to his room, he set down the mug and reached for his portfolio. Rummaging through countless rejected masterpieces, he found a series of self-portrait facial studies from a class project. His instructor had given him an A for the work, praising it to his concurring classmates. Jeff had fixed it up later in the semester.

 After laying the drawings on the bed, he reached over to his bookshelf and retrieved a guide to lupine anatomy. Thumbing through the book, he compared the angles and ridges of his face with the contours of the wolf. Four sheets of paper saw scribbled notes detailing the progression of change. Jeff wasn’t trying for a sequence, but it would be important to know exactly how each alteration would affect his shape. The final result would be skewed if he simply “drew himself as a wolf.” A nearby ruler and protractor helped him figure out the proportions of human to wolf. Coupled with a little math, he would have an accurate size comparison.

His studies ate up almost two hours of the day. Jeff finally stopped when the muscles in his wrist cramped his fingers into warped uselessness. He had been unaware of his illness while he worked, but was confronted with it in full force once he stopped. Jeff dragged his aching carcass to the bathroom and searched for some balm for his gnarled drawing hand. Sweat dripped down his locks, and he realized he was famished. He hadn’t had an appetite until now, and attempted to turn a blind mind’s eye to the tremors in his stomach as he rubbed Icy Hot into his sore skin. Only when his talented hands were safe did he stumble to the kitchen and sate himself with almost two meals at once.

He went back to the drawing board once his stomach quieted down. Working from his notes and field guide, he began the process of transferring the ideas to paper. The actual penciling took little time, as he was quite adept at placing his strokes properly. He went for a full body shot, using worm’s-eye-view to emphasize the additional one foot, nine inches of height the change would give him. Thick shading displayed the rippling muscles of his beast shape. He extended his normally short hair into a medium-length furry mane, and waved a bushy tail between stocky digitigrade legs. He had to erase several times to properly place the dewclaws; thankfully, he always used light strokes. Feeling a bit giddy from his fever, he even drew himself a lupine sheath. The penciled lycanthrope was magnificent, a near-living simulation of sinew and fury. Jeff’s alter ego snarled at him from the page, steadily waiting for the right moment to leap from the paper and tear his creator’s throat out. Playfully, the creator snarled back. Must be divinely inspired, he thought. Usually takes twice this long for something this good.

Daylight was beginning to wane as Jeff decided the drawing was ready to ink and color. He found it difficult to prepare the brush through a sudden bout of muscle spasms and rush of heat. He peeled his Ghost Rider T-shirt off like warm cellophane as he braced himself against the table and struggled to relax. He’d definitely have to see a doctor tomorrow.

Jeff focused his attention on the one thing that made him forget his illness. Inking was fairly easy for him, as he was skilled with a brush. The horsehair drew slowly along the wolf fur, leaving a thin trail of India ink along the contours of the drawing. The artist was forced to stop twice during this stage as his muscles twitched out of control. Finally, the titanic struggle ended with a perfectly inked drawing. While waiting for the ink to dry, he tested out colors on a spare section of his drawing tablet. He finally found the correct shade of blondish brown to match his modified hair-to-fur color, and began applying it to the interior fur.

He had dipped the brush back onto his small color palate for the fourth time when the sun faded below the horizon.

The illness struck with gale force. Jeff’s head swam in agony as the paint fell from the table, dashing against the floor in a pool of hues. He staggered off the collapsing stool as his fever erupted and his muscles punched at his skin. His heart was a subwoofer about to blow, and Jeff knew he was going to die. He staggered aimlessly, tripping over the fallen stool and landing hard against the windowsill. Light struck his face, and he saw the full moon through his tearing vision.

Something within him clicked, and Jeff felt his skin stretching, muscles amplifying themselves to superhuman levels. He was growing, his expanding frame pressing painfully against the elastic waistband of his sweatpants. Angrily, he tore at them, and watched scraps of fabric sail through the air, torn by his razor claws. Growling with anguish, he felt saliva drip from the long fangs in his growing muzzle. His pointed ears brought him the sounds of air being pushed aside by the waving of his growing tail. He stood on animal legs, pushing the window open easily to feel the wind ripple through gray-brown fur. Amber eyes and a sensitive black nose took in the world around him. He was monstrous perfection.

The effects of the illness subsided as his transformations ceased. Jeff knew instantly what he had become—no, what he was. He didn’t even consider it an illness. Lycanthropy was a gift to him, and he howled his appreciation to the beaming moon. A few of his neighbors ducked to their balconies in search of the sound as the werewolf spirited into the depths of his den, snarling with laughter. He felt healthier than he had ever been in his life, and paraded around the apartment, yipping with glee.  He craved raw steak, and padded on thick paws to the kitchen for dinner. He retrieved a choice cut from the refrigerator and tore away the wrap with his long claws. As he took his first bite, his attention diverted to the nearby mirror.

 His ears were slightly shorter than he’d imagined. So were his claws. The tail swishing behind him was definitely thicker, and grew from a slightly lower point of his pelvis. He had a washboard stomach, and two extra sets of nipples, as opposed to the smooth abs and single pectorals of his drawing. He was sheathed, but it was slightly longer than what he had penciled. His fur was mostly brown with streaks of gray, not the dyed blondish-brown he’d envisioned. He was nearly three feet taller than normal, and massive in build.

Jeff felt his euphoria sink. He furiously clenched his massive fists, squeezing the steak into two-dimensional pulp. His ears drooped as he snarled angrily. Without a second thought, he stomped back to the drawing table, creaking the floor with his weight. Mighty claws snatched his masterpiece and shredded it into so much confetti. The man-beast panted as he leaned on the table, his weight threatening its existence. With a faint growl approaching a human sigh, Jeff carefully picked up a pencil in his right paw and confiscated his drawing tablet with his left. His claws left pockmarks in the paper as he walked to the dining room mirror and crouched down on his haunches. He studied himself with lupine eyes as he began making anatomical notes.

Jeff couldn’t bring himself to celebrate during the entire night.

He was perfection.

He just couldn’t draw it.

Author’s Note: This story is a work of fiction. It includes violence, foul language, and transformation. First North American Serial Rights are reserved. Permission is given to print or save, but this story may not be edited, redistributed, or posted anywhere on the web without proper consent.